Could We Build Something Different?

There’s a big old island of trash floating out there in the Pacific Ocean. I learned today from some reading that it's mostly itty bitty pieces of plastic, detritus from the world's wasteful ways. Here's an interesting article about it: http://www.zmescience.com/science/oceanography/just-in-case-you-didnt-know-theres-a-garbage-island-twice-as-big-as-france-in-the-pacific-ocean/  It’s awful. It’s dangerous. It’s ugly. It’s an assault on our humanity that it exists. How did it get there? One piece at a time. People thought…well, one little bottle in the great big sea is no big deal. Others may have thought…everyone else is doing it. It is not beyond the possible that one of those plastic bottles came from you or me…80% of the debris is from land rather than ships or rigs. Then there were those that flat out did not care and still do not care. Make no mistake, people are adding to the mess every single day. They do not have the love and respect for our planet to treat it with reverence. So the blight grows. One piece at a time.

I woke up thinking about this yesterday, as an analogy for what happened in Charleston Wednesday. I don’t think it or any analogy is perfect but I do believe that incremental growth has been in work when it comes to racism in our country. I grew up in the 50’s and 60’s. I was raised in a South Central Texas, in a Christian home, with a lot more love than is present in the homes of many who call themselves “Christians” today. But I did see the ugliness in my own hometown and also played out on TV. In my town it was mostly directed at Hispanics. Anybody who thinks this line of thinking is over is not in tune with today’s politics. Via media of course, I witnessed the unfolding of the Civil Rights Movement. I can’t forget the twisted hate-filled faces of mobs trying to keep one little girl from going to elementary school. It seemed to me that things were finally so stunningly wrong that we reached a tipping point and good people began to realize change was necessary. While I certainly knew we had a long way to go to becoming “post racial,” I did tell myself progress had occurred since the '60s.

Then we elected a black President. There was a great feeling of hope and pride among many people that this was the beginning of a new era. But even during the campaign and most certainly after, the ugliness raised its head. It seemed that a lot of folks decided that racisim was not only permissible behind closed doors, but that it was actually in vogue. These days tasteless jokes abound and folks use veiled expressions and code words to talk about their prejudices. People seem to think that things they thought but kept to themselves are now just fine to say. Didn’t we have a Presidential candidate stand up just this week and tell us that Hispanic immigrants are rapists and addicts? He knows he has an audience for those words. And anybody who thinks racism is less an issue ore even about the same as it was 10 years ago is not being honest with himself or others. I remember vividly the ugly mobs at school segregation protests and the deaths of marchers, and of course of the four innocent young girls in Birmingham. To me, this was a moment when right thinking people knew they could no longer remain on the fence. It was time to take a stand against racism. Now we have an event so similar to the one in Birmingham that comparison cannot be denied. It is tipping point time again. It is time to say:  Enough. No more. This must stop. That means the snide comments as well as the out and out hate speech and actions. Enough. Stop. Now. We have built a big island of hate and bigotry in this country and indeed in the world, one bit at a time, just like that big old trash island out in the ocean. We need to make it clear that we will not tolerate this trashy behavior in our presence or in our country. And here's my final thought...What if instead we started building, bit by bit, some islands of love and tolerance in our beleaguered world?

Disasters and Christianity...How to Help Others Rather than Add Pain

I feel the need to get this off the chest. I am sick and tired of sanctimonious “Christians” who give good believers a bad name. I don’t feel the need to explain or justify my faith to anybody and respect all other beliefs. Faith is not what causes pain and tribulation in our world; it’s fundamentalism and hypocritical zealotry. Sunday I was in Wimberley, TX with my cousin whose house had 12 feet of water in it from the Memorial Day flood. At that point she wasn’t even sure her house could be saved, but they were tearing out everything out down to the studs. She needed help, and wonderful people, many from local and area churches, were bringing food and supplies and generously offering to do the dirty work required. At one point a silver haired fellow with a church logo on his t-shirt came up with some other folks and offered the help of his group. I am calling him Mr. Fullaself. We gladly welcomed them. He said they would be happy to help but wanted a prayer circle first. I thought that was very nice and joined everyone else who was out in the driveway in a circle where we held hands. He gave a brief prayer and we dropped hands and started to go back to work. But he said; “Now I would like to say a few more words.” At this point my thought was “uh oh.” He proceeded to give a little sermon of sorts in which one thing he said really stood out.  He said “God will not take something away without giving you something even better to take its place.” OK at that point I wanted to throttle him. I wanted to say, and wish I had said, “Is that true for Jonathan McCord and all the other people who have lost loved ones in this flood? Is God going to give Jonathan a BETTER son, daughter, and wife?” My good feelings were turning to anger. Next he proceeded to ask if we had all been saved, and gave a rendition of the plan of salvation, which I recognized well from my Baptist upbringing. People stirred a bit in discomfort. He began pointing to each person and saying this: “If you die tonight do you know where you will go? Will you go to heaven or hell? Do you BELIEVE in heaven and hell?” He was asking each of us this one by one, literally jabbing his finger at every person in turn around the circle. By this point I was appalled. I gave my cousin a look across the circle. I could tell she was hanging in because she NEEDED help. He pounced on a young Hispanic woman and her daughter from San Antonio who had driven over knowing no one, just to lend a hand wherever needed. They had been my partners in a dish washing/disinfecting assembly line process prior to the interruption. It was clear they were uncomfortable and likely not even understanding his Christinista lingo. I spoke out and said, “I am comfortable in my faith and have no worries for the hereafter for myself OR for my daughter who is inside ripping out carpet and just happens to be gay. I know we will be fine.” I never pass up a chance to call out Christianistas for their judgment of gays. Then I walked away, noticing with a pang that he had pulled the mother/daughter team over to the side to browbeat them some more. When he was finally done I went to my dishwashing friends and told them how sorry I was for what had happened and thanked them profusely for their help. What an example of Christian charity THEY were demonstrating by just being there to help us out.

Once this ordeal was finished, Mr. Fullaself approached my cousin and said he was a retired contractor and would be happy to advise her about the state of her house. She accepted because this was her biggest concern and she wanted information from someone familiar with situations like hers. He proceeded to walk her though the house giving her very dismal pronouncements about the sorry state of her place, ending up with the conclusion that it might well be a teardown. Then he left. HE DID NOT DO A LICK OF WORK. His “crew” stayed and we were grateful for their help. I am telling myself they were embarrassed by his conduct, but nobody said anything to diminish the damage he had brought to everyone’s spirits. I feel sure he went to other locations doing the same, and since then has been telling everybody about the great help he has been able to provide to so many people as they try to recover from the flood.

Late that afternoon the REAL contractor who will be helping rebuild my cousin’s home came by and was able to give her much better news and describe how her house could most certainly be saved. It entered my mind that maybe Mr. Fullaself wanted to take my cousin down a notch or two because she clearly had a very nice place right on the creek.

Here are some suggestions for people who want to help out after a disaster:

1.     Do not turn this into a time to proselytize. It’s fine to say you are from a church of course! After that it’s time to say “Now what can we do?” Churches all over the area mobilized, organized, and played a huge part in recovery in all affected areas. This is still going on.

2.     Do not tell people that the disaster happened as part of God’s plan and that he never gives you more than you can handle. That is so trite and patently untrue for many. God is not wiping out your family to make you stronger. He/she is not that sort of egoistic celestial puppeteer. My cousin is family friends with the McCords. Her children have been searching every day for their friends and all victims. Jonathan’s wife and son were found, but not yet his daughter. You never know when you can say something that is terribly hurtful and inappropriate.

3.     DO NOT SAY GOD IS GONNA GIVE YOU SOMETHING BETTER. There will be no children, wives, fathers, or siblings 2.0 to replace those lost.

4.     DO show up even if you’re not up to heavy lifting, shoveling, etc. There are jobs for everybody. Also, I watched my cousin greet friends who just dropped by to say they were thinking of her and maybe pass the time for a short while. She really appreciated those breaks from the hard work at hand. Before I left Tuesday, she was already counting her blessings, and one was the chance to reconnect with people who were coming by and get in short visits. She did NOT mention being blessed by a sanctimonious hypocrite.

OK I’m done with this particular rant. If you made it all the way through, thanks for reading!

Musings About Unlearning Racism

My mind seems to be stuck in the 60s lately. The books that I’ve been reading are a factor, to be sure. Recently I read Revolution by Deborah Wiles, which takes me back to one particular year, 1964.  I haven’t seen the movie Selma yet, but surely it has other people remembering this time as well. It’s about the summer of 1964 in Greenwood, Mississippi. This town with its roots in the Deep South had avoided observance of civil rights legislation, starting with Brown vs. board of education and continuing with the civil rights act of 1964. I thought I would also put down some of my recollections of racism in Texas during my growing up years. I believe that with many families and groups, racism gets less pronounced through each generation. I know my mother and dad held less prejudice than their own parents, and I carried on with broader views and am proud to be the mother of a brave young woman who will tolerate no prejudice whether it is directed at race, religion, or sexuality. I continue to learn from her. But I have to confess straight out: I was raised with some racist notions and it took me longer than it should have to put them aside. I think it’s accurate to say I am a recovering racist. Maybe that’s the best thing many people my age, raised in the South, can hope to be. I am not proud of that but I think that publicly admitting my past thinking is something I ought to do. Reading Revolution, along with living in a time when racism is being ramped up again after all that we’ve been through as a country caused me to go back through my memories of racism as I saw it during my growing up years. This is my past and the past of folks who grew up alongside me in Texas and in many other parts of our country.

·      My earliest recollection is being admonished by my grandmother. We were in the grocery store, and she gave me a nickel to spend. I must have been only 5 or so because I popped it into my mouth for safekeeping. She pulled hard on my hand and scolded me saying,”Take that nickel out of your mouth! You don’t know where it’s been! It could have been in a little Mexican’s mouth.” I didn’t like the idea of my nickel having been in anyone else’s mouth and instantly obeyed. This is my first remembered lesson that somehow brown kids were different from me. I don’t think I questioned that at all.

·      Once I started school I learned lots of lessons in prejudice, from my teachers as well as other kids. It was well known that speaking Spanish in school was a terrible sin and that we should tell the teacher if we heard any of that going on. Again I don’t think I questioned this, but I did envy the Spanish speaking kids because they had a way to communicate that was tons better than other kids had. Still, I thought it must be wrong to speak Spanish even though the reason was beyond me.

·      This lesson was one that repeated itself over my childhood years. Once a little girl in my class called me on the telephone. I thought this was pretty cool because I was not used to having friends call me. This would have been when I was in second grade, or maybe third. Mother questioned me about that call and when I told her the girl’s name, she said I should not encourage her to call in the future. She had a Hispanic last name. She was smart and funny, with long pigtails that I admired. This time I felt resentment at the unfairness of the latest edict: I was to be nice to this girl at school but she could never come over to play or spend the night and I could never go to her house. This may have been the first time I DID question the discrimination. The one exception was if a school project was involved. This actually came up a year or two later and I was pleased that on one occasion she could come over with several other girls to work on a school project. Looking back, I feel bad about this exclusionary attitude. It wasn’t just my parents, it was ALL the moms and dads. I was thus deprived of the associations that could have given me

·      From my earliest years I got the message that socializing with those who were not just like me was not allowed, and that was especially true for boys and girls. At one point my mom got on me for holding hands with little boy that I thought was wonderful. When I complained that he was the smartest boy in my class, Mom said that did not make any difference. I was not to think about having boy-girl friendships with boys that were not “white.” As I grew older, the message was communicated more strongly, not necessarily from my parents but from others, both adults and peers.

·      When I started high school, black kids joined our classes for the first time. The assimilation was pretty smooth as far as I could tell…there were none of the ugly incidents that I saw elsewhere on TV news. I learned that these kids were smart and funny too, but were another group with whom my contact should strictly be at school.

My world got a little bigger when I went off to college. One of the girls in my sorority was dating a boy with a Hispanic last name and nobody cared. I realized that everybody everywhere did not share the prejudices that I learned growing up. Then as I moved into adulthood my attitudes continued to change. I think the final barriers came down when I started teaching at university level and I had students of all colors and persuasions who were smart, creative, and downright wonderful. I am glad that my world is not so hemmed in as it was at some time. And I am glad that my daughter grew up much more “evolved” than did I in this respect.

Here’s why I want to share my stories:

·      I think my growing up years were typical for boys and girls in South Central Texas during the 60’s and before. It is up to us turn away from such prejudices. This goes for sexuality too. I am saddened by people my age who still show through words and actions that they look down on others because of their skin color, their religion, or their sexuality. Some of this is overt and ugly, but a lot of it is veiled in code words and innuendoes. I hate prejudice in all forms.

·      It distresses me that since 2000 it seems the racists have come out of hiding and revealed their prejudices more boldly than in years running up to then. First it was 911 and a lot of judging of “brown:” people. I know some of my grad students reported incidents where they were looked at differently after that date. Then, with the election of President Obama, the ugliness increased and even became fashionable in some circles. Again with some people this is very overt, but with too many others it is more subtle but still discernable.

·      Since my daughter is gay, I have become especially conscious of the treatment of folks whose sexuality does not fit very narrow parameters. I believe sexuality is a continuum. People are born with traits and inclinations that range from being very “feminine” or “masculine” to points in between. I am straight but think my place on this continuum is closer to the middle than extreme. By no means do people choose to be gay or straight. I saw hints in my daughter at age two that I realized later were early indications of her future development. And that’s OK!

·      I feel sad that the world I grew up in had such strict barriers. I got shortchanged. I missed out on having fun with so many wonderful kids who are now delightful adults. I never got to have sleepovers with Linda, Ruth, Rosemary, Josie, Yolanda, or any of the other girls I now love spending time with as adults. I had even less chance to get to know George, Gene, Fernando, Wallace, Catarino, or other boys in my class that were not “OK” for me to socialize with. What a loss! We grew up alongside one another but not WITH one another. I grew up with Susan, John, Eugenia, Donna, Carol, Ginger, Jill, Donnie, Ronnie, Mike, and all the other kids that had fun together at parties and just hanging out. Our lives could have been so much richer without the strict boundaries that were part of our “education.” I hope our grandchildren are growing up in a world that is more open.

·      Finally I want to say I am sorry. I am sorry I was a slow study and had to go out into the world to really understand how poisonous racism really is. I’m sorry I was not more courageous and less oblivious growing up and missing out on all the friends I could have had. I think it is appropriate to say I am sorry for these things, and it feels important to me. I know there are folks who don’t want to apologize for things that happened in the past, including slavery, and that this is being discussed right now by some politicians. Well let me just say that for myself, I am sorry. I wish these things had never happened. Maybe I am not directly to blame for historical evenets, but I am responsible for my own slow evolution. Putting all this out in public is, I believe, one more step in my growing up. Thanks to all my present friends, some who know how I used to be, but still now welcome me into their lives as if I had never shown any prejudice. From now on I want to speak out against racism whenever I see it, both veiled and blatant.

Remembering November 22, 1963

It’s coming up in about a week, and as always that causes me to look back to 1963. The event of November 22, 1963 was a watershed for people of my generation.  For years it was a conversation topic…what were you doing the day Kennedy died? I know for my part that day brings back memories every year when it comes around. Just as my folks could tell exactly how they heard about Pearl Harbor, I still have memories about those days that feel fresh after all these years.

That Friday started out sunny and pleasant in San Marcos Texas, just as it did in Dallas. For my friends, and me it was a special day we had been looking forward to with great anticipation. It was my senior year in high school, and this was Homecoming Day. That meant visitors on campus throughout the day, a pep rally in the afternoon, and the game that night followed by the big event, the Homecoming Dance. Just the night before we’d decorated the gym. Our theme was West Side Story and my best friend John had cooked up the idea of making a New York Skyline with purple lights shining from behind. John was Student Council President, and as always he displayed his flair for big projects. We were sure this was the best gym decorating ever. Back then former students could come on campus during school hours, see the school, and visit with former teachers.  My dad and all my uncles and my one aunt were San Marcos Rattlers, and sometimes they would come. This year I was hoping to see my uncle Lon. He was a favorite and I wanted to show off my boyfriend. This was before the time of security being a major concern on public school campuses. Charles Whitman would have been in high school too, and not on track yet to plan and carry out the first mass school shooting. Homecoming was one of the high school’s big events, and for seniors such as my friends and me, it was going to be even more special.  

Better yet, it was a day when little or no classwork got done. I was enjoying my prestige at being one of the helpers in the main office where we were handing out mums to the lucky girls whose dates had bought them and had them delivered from Smith’s Flowers. This was before the day of billboard sized artificial flower displays worn like sandwich boards. I got into this inner circle by going steady with the Senior Class President. It was fun finding the right mum for the right girl. Your mum would have your fella’s initials on it or, if he played football, his number. Some girls got a mum with a question mark on theirs, or maybe MD for “mom and dad.” Being without a mum to wear all afternoon was about the same as wearing a scarlet letter. I know because it had happened just the year before to me, sadly dateless for Homecoming. And look at me now, I thought. I’m giving out mums!

Suddenly one of the school secretaries rushed out of her office, where a TV was on for the President’s welcome in Dallas. There weren’t many TV’s on campus but of course they had one in the office. World Series were not to be missed entirely, as well as other events. “The President’s been shot!” she announced in an urgent voice. We crowded into her office and watched footage of the motorcade rushing away. We heard that he was on his way to Parkland Hospital. As terrible as this news was, it never occurred to me that he would not be all right. I remember hoping he was not too seriously hurt.  I was concerned about Vice President Johnson, a Texan with San Marcos ties, and Governor Connolly. At that point we knew more than one person had been shot but not who was hurt and who was not.  After a few minutes we resumed activities. More girls came in for their mums and other office business continued. The secretary stayed in her office and other adults came and went, waiting for updates. For us kids, no news was good news and we were glad to have something to do that kept us near the source of the news but not in the middle.

I’m not sure how much time went by, but it was probably around noon when the news of the shooting first reached our school.  As minutes went by with no more news, I continued telling myself that reassuring news would reach us soon. It was probably around an hour later, or a little less, when we all heard the secretary burst into tears. Now we knew. Our President was dead. Things came to a sudden halt. My friends and I were sent back to class. I seem to remember going to homeroom. Our principal made the announcement to the whole school and gasps and cries could be heard up and down the halls. Everyone was stunned. This was without precedent. No national crisis of this magnitude had happened in my lifetime. I think we knew that our teachers didn’t know what to do either.  Pretty much we all reacted with stunned silence. After a short time another announcement was made. School was dismissed for the day. Buses would come for those who were riders. The rest of us were advised to go home and be with our families. As for the Homecoming festivities, all that was canceled. The game would go on that night, but there would be no dance. Not that we wanted festivities at this juncture.

The advice to be with our families resonated with me. I wanted my mother. I got a ride to Campus Elementary where Mom taught first grade. Of course when I got there I realized that their school was not going to be dismissed early. In fact I don’t think the children were told that anything was amiss. Only high schoolers were sent home early. Mom came to the door to give me a hug but sent me on my way. She told me to go to Dad’s office and she would be there as soon as possible. Walking down Guadalupe Street to Dad’s office I realized I was scared as well as sad. My first thought was that we must be going to war! I remember walking down the hill and looking at the stately old Johnson house with its still green lawn and tennis courts. All this could be destroyed, I thought. It wasn’t that long ago when Nikita Khrushchev banged his shoe on the rostrum at the United Nations. It was finally happen after those duck and cover drills and scare talk. War was coming to us right here in the USA.

That night we glumly turned out for the football game. I think we played Gonzales, a nearby town that was at the time about the size of San Marcos. I do remember that we lost by a large margin. During the game the band was instructed not to play. The only music allowed was the Star Spangled Banner and our respective school songs.  No fight song, which seemed fine. Our team wasn’t fighting very hard anyway, it seemed. Those of us in drill team sat in the stands and shivered. The only nod to Homecoming was that, oddly, they went ahead and announced the Homecoming Queen. It was Betty Lou Creekmore and I did feel a surge of happiness for my good friend. After the game my boyfriend and I ended up at my house. We were both sad and dispirited. I confided my fears and he tried to reassure me.

The weekend was a blur. On Saturday morning I joined my friends in taking down the decorations in the gym. Being kids, we wondered if there would be some sort of event to make up for us missing out on our senior homecoming and having to tear down the New York Skyline that we had made from cardboard and paint, the crepe paper, the balloons, and all the other frivolities.  Sunday morning we turned out for services at First Baptist Church. It was a gray, cloudy day for a somber message. I walked into our den through the back door ahead of my folks and reflexively turned on the TV, which we’d had on nonstop since Friday. The next thing that happened was astounding. Just as I turned on the set, I saw the crowd of lawmen in the basement of the Dallas County Jail, and there was Lee Harvey Oswald coming out of an elevator with men on either side. As I watched, I heard the shot and saw Oswald double over. He’d been shot and I had just seen the incident right before my eyes! Mom and Dad were still gathering their things and getting out of the car. I breathlessly spilled out the news. This was too much! How could such a thing happen? I began to feel afraid all over again. How could so many terrible things happen in just three days?

Time would ease my fears about a threat from Russia. Like a lot of people I wanted to believe this was just the act of one hate-filled man. I know my parents stressed that. Mom was always one to look ahead and not dwell on things too much I learned not to speculate in her presence. Now, after all these years, I don’t feel like I know much more about what really happened that day than I did back then. The second killing after the assassination just seemed too much of a coincidence for me to swallow, even as a kid. But in recent years I’ve adopted Mom’s attitude. I don’t dwell on it.

EPILOGUE

This fall my classmates and I marked our fifty-year reunion. The event is for graduates of all years and ages, and held in the local conference center. It was a chance for me to see old friends from my class and other classes too. I saw people I had not seen for all those years.  Thanks to Ruben Ruiz’s organizational prowess, it was a memorable event. Toward the end of the program, the band played a song just for our class, and we all went out on the floor and danced. This was our Homecoming Dance after all those years. It felt good.

As an aside, I know there were news stories of school children cheering at the news of Kennedy’s shooting. There was nothing but deepest mourning in my community and, I believe, throughout the state. It took Dallas a long time to get past this terrible event. At this time of great polarization in our country, even more pronounced than back then in my estimation, I hope people of good will can work together to create a climate of tolerance and acceptance, both in our state and in our country.

My Dad the Flagrant Lawbreaker...NOT

I am feeling sentimental on this Election Day Eve. I just read Elizabeth Crook’s story of her dad and the dress code fiasco in San Marcos back in the 1970’s. If you have not read it, stop reading this and go here: http://www.texasmonthly.com/content/dad-vs-dress-code  Her account is not to miss if you have interest in San Marcos Texas, local politics, and citizens past and present...or even if not! She's a great writer! The story made me think of my life growing up in a family closely tied to San Marcos politics back in the 1960’s and the feelings I had when my own dad came under fire by someone trying to garner political points. My dad, Zeb Fitzgerald, served as Democratic Party County Chairman for all my childhood years. This position is really a thankless job that he did because he did have an interest in politics and because people urged him to take the position. One thing it involved back then was driving around to all the Hays County communities and posting election notices with voting information before an election. I would invariably be relegated to the back seat with Mom and Dad up front. My brother was deemed old enough to stay home by himself. Our trip would take all afternoon, usually a Sunday after church. We’d stop in Wimberley, Fisher Store, Driftwood, Dripping Springs, Kyle, etc. and Dad would get out and nail up a notice in the appointed place. I can remember feeling bored and put upon but also a little proud that WE were the ones getting people out to vote. We also ran the elections, with Dad and Mom both working all day at the main polling location, which was the little white frame library next to the First Baptist Church. Bill and I would be there to run errands or help out in any way we could. Also, of course, there was the huge treat of spending a whole day in the library. Then when the polls closed we would gather up Grandmother Fitzgerald and a picnic supper and head for the courthouse where the returns would be posted when each box came in. We got to watch the pollsters walk in with their important looking metal ballot boxes. When someone came out and updated results on the big chalkboard, people would cheer for their favored candidates. I loved election days from start to finish! And it seems to me that we were always happy with the results. Of course back then the Democrats were virtually the only party in San Marcos and we did not pay much attention to the Republicans. I don’t even know where they posted their results. Probably at the same board but they were, in our minds anyway, insignificant.

Politics were always supper table conversation at our house. I was interested in who was running for what office, starting at the local level and going on up. Mom and Dad would talk about the relative merits of candidates and whom they liked. In the days leading up to the election I would be given an official job to do. I was the person who sharpened the pencils that would be used for voting. We always used boxes of pencils provided by one of the companies Dad did business with. They came in cardboard boxes, one gross per box. Dad would give me a serious talk about my responsibility. “Remember,” he would say, “These pencils will be used for VOTING. It’s important that every point is nice and sharp.” I would sit on a stool and turn the crank of our pencil sharpener, which was just like those we used in school. My hands would grow black from the graphite. I would get tired. But I always kept going; feeling like my job was terribly vital. Dad paid me a dollar a box, but I would have done it for free.  On Election Day I would have a little thrill when I saw people pick up MY pencils and go to the booths to vote.

One afternoon when I was in my early teens, my mother pulled me and my brother aside for a serious talk. I think I was in 5^th grade. She said she needed for us to read something and produced a printed sheet of paper, half of a letter size piece. It was a notice criticizing my father. It said that Dad was trying to take control of San Marcos politics with a possible eye to seeking a higher office. The notice stated that the fact that he was serving on a state water board and also holding the Democratic Chair position proved he was grasping greedily for power. It went on to say he was “flagrantly” breaking the law. These flyers had been put on car windshields all around the square including the cars in front of Dad’s office at Hays County Title Company. They were all over the place and the same notice was in the San Marcos Record that week. Mom said she wanted us to hear about this notice from her and not from someone at school. She said kids might make fun of us. I was incensed! These things were not true! I wanted Dad to publicly speak out and clear his name. At supper that night he made light of the situation, saying he did not realize he smelled bad. My brother had looked up FLAGRANT and quickly told him the meaning, to which Dad said well, I thought it was like FRAGRANT. He told us to forget about the whole thing, and that he was dropping out of the race.

What? No more pencil sharpening? How would people vote? They would probably have to use dull pencils. I was the best pencil sharpener in county history, Dad assured me. Frankly I still believe that is true! I sharpened those pencils with love…love of my country and of Texas. Dad wanted to keep his other position, which was a membership on the GBRA, Guadalupe Blanco River Authority, and he did not want a hint of impropriety. He had accepted this appointment from his friend Governor Price Daniel, and it meant a lot to him because of his lifelong concern about water conservation. “But if you quit people will think you are guilty of something!” Bill and I protested Predictably Dad said he didn’t care what people thought and we shouldn’t either. I actually did get a couple of remarks from kids at school about my dad, to which I directed a tirade that was probably more than they bargained for. The whole thing was over in a few days except that I had sad and angry feelings about it for years. The man who had circulated the flyers was running for county chairman himself. It was the first time Dad had ever been opposed. The truth of the matter was that this man, not Dad, wanted a future in local politics and wanted to get his name out. I don’t remember if he succeeded or not. We still went down to the courthouse on election nights, and Mom and Dad still went to precinct meetings, taking me with them when I got older. I got to cast my first vote, for Adlai Stevenson, in that little white frame library which was torn down soon after that to make way for the town library. Now it’s a commercial property. There’s no trace of the little green shuttered house or of the mysterious grave covered with shells that was right on the corner next to it.

What is my takeaway from all this? Well, I learned that politics can be mean and dirty, and that this has always been true. Dad’s reaction showed me that a sense of humor is a valuable quality when times are tough. But my biggest lessons go all the way back to the years Mom and Dad served. Voting is important, even sacred. Everyone should be treated with honor and respect when voting. We should care about our government from the local level on up to the highest office in the land. We should respect our leaders, and especially our President, whether we like him or not. When Eisenhower was elected, Dad was the first to say he was a good man and brave soldier and that he would be a good president. I never heard him say a bad word about any candidate, not even the man who wanted and won his thankless job as county chairman. So thanks Dad, and you too Mom, for showing us how real patriots act. I miss you and I miss those days.